"Erik Derveaux, please report to the main office— Erik Derveaux."
At a school as small as St. Cecilia's High School, only a select few ever spoke on the intercom in the main office. There were two secretaries— Mrs. Webster and Mrs. Golden (you could tell which one gave every student who ever step foot in the office some form of a lollipop or hard candy just by her last name)— one of the two guidance counselors (and their office's secretary), the president of the school, and the principal. Of all these few people, there was one male. It was easy to distinguish who was who based on their voice and overall demeanor, but everyone knew when it was the principal on the intercom. And everyone knew that he only used the intercom when it was a not-so-good, semi-urgent situation. Using it only for those occasions, which weren't extremely often (the teachers usually did all of the work to send students to the office), meant that he didn't know how to use it very well. His lips were practically pressed against the bottom half of the phone— or so it sounded— and he talked way louder and faster than necessary. Everyone's ears were inevitably ringing as soon as the noise vaguely similar to the smoke-and-seatbelt-signs-are-off-slash-on sound pinged throughout every classroom in the ancient, skinny building.
As quick as the announcement beckoning Erik Derveaux to the main office had been in itself, all eyes soon shifted to face the teenaged boy, clad in a hoodie despite the very strict uniform code (and apparently the most important one to the principal), and seated closer to the front of the room than he actually wanted to be. Yeah, their assigned desks were arranged by order of last name, and yeah, he got to stare at the new girl's surprisingly mesmerizing dark curls because of it, but he'd much prefer being in the back of the room than the second desk of the first row, by the windows. And he was just shocked by how curly the girl's hair seemed to be. It was more often a mess than not. It seemed like it was once a week that she came in with tamed hair. Maybe she planned it that way. To look semi-decent at least once a week. It's only been a few weeks into the school year, though, so what would Erik know?
Sliding off the hoodie—quickly, because he knew everyone was looking at him and he needed to end that as fast as possible—and tossing it over the back of the desk's chair, Erik made his way in only a couple strides (his legs were probably the length of your average telephone pole, and the width of celery on a good day.) to the door and shut it faster than he even opened it. He closed it so carefully that it didn't make even the softest clicking sound as it shut. Christine, whose eyes lingered on him longer than the rest of the kids, noticed that— but we're not talking about her right now. Pretend you didn't hear that. Er- read that.
Erik's first period class—religion (this year titled something like 'Living Close to Jesus,' but that's just the cover-up for writing college essays and applications)—is on the fourth floor-The highest floor in the brick oven of a building. Walking from the first floor to the fourth floor in a span of three minutes is equivalent to running a marathon in two hours— impossible to the average, out of shape teenager, which filled the school to the brim save the few football players and basketball players that actually tried.
Erik wonders if it takes him more than three minutes to walk down the four flights of stairs. He takes his time walking down each step, the bottoms of his vans slapping against whatever thousand-year-old material the stairs are made up of and echoing throughout the empty stairwell. There's a window on each landing, and he stops to look out of each of them for a couple seconds before proceeding. Finally, he reaches the set of doors labeled '1st Floor.' He turns the handle, pulling it open and catching the front of it as it squeaks behind him.
Walking through the open lobby, Erik peaks into the library, seeing almost an entire study hall fill the tables. No doubt it's one of the lesser-liked teacher's study halls. Almost everyone gets one huge pass to the library because they can't stand to sit in silence and actually get homework done. It makes Erik roll his eyes. Students value socializing (and far more) over doing well in school. It's dumb to Erik. Of course, he wouldn't use that term. He's far too intelligent.
He opens the door to the office, replying to Mrs. Golden's sunny greeting with a faint 'Hi,' and a very forced, practically invisible smile.
"You can head straight into Mr. Curtis' office." She informs him. Erik nods, walking to the back of the fairly large office. There's the front desk, a plethora of cubicles, and the principal and president offices in the very back, and above them is a conference room. It's probably the nicest, newest area in the whole school. The library is pretty good too, but this—most likely because students aren't (and don't wanna be) swarming around in here— is actually well maintained. No shade to the librarian, though-she's one person against three hundred kids.
"Mr. Derveaux, come on in and have a seat." Mr. Curtis calls before Erik has even reached the door. There's something very distinct about hearing him yell from his office. Just like how he speaks on the intercom.
Erik sits down on the uncomfortable, over-sat in, leather, maroon sofa. He places his palms over his khaki-d knees, his leg already beginning to shake.
"How's your year going so far?"
Oh no. This is not just a check in with the sad kid. Erik notices it right away. He's going to lay some shit on him and he's stalling. Whether that's a 'you're in trouble' shit or a 'your neighbor's uncle's cat died' shit, he isn't so sure. Not yet anyway.
"It's just like the other three." He replies. It's not entirely true. It wouldn't be true for anyone. But especially not Erik. Erik was simply just sad kid Erik freshmen year, and everyone was both terrified of him and amused by his face. They used both of those aspects to project all their inner issues onto him. Otherwise known as the weak word 'bullying.' Erik was used to it, of course. He had expected it. But as the years went on, his own class got used to him. And the new classes that came in would eventually, too. And now, freshmen wouldn't dare say anything about a senior.
"Good," Says Mr. Curtis. Not good. Everyone knows that saying every year was like the other means that Erik is already having a shitty year— but this was just his attempt at stalling, and now that he's finished, he's over that part of the conversation. "As you know, here at Saint Cecilia's, we require a certain number of service hours to graduate. We've given you a lot of leeway the past few years regarding your condition—" The condition he's speaking of doesn't apply to the misshapen, discolored, disgusting state of the right side of his face. It's another condition. The mental one. The one where he needs to take a thousand different meds every day or else he'll lose control of himself and get really angry and then really sad once the meds are restarted. "But you need at least a few hours to graduate. Or else, I'll have to either hold you back or expel you." Those are two very different options. Both look bad to colleges, but Erik has been unnecessarily uncaring of his life in the future. He has an idea. He'll figure it out eventually.
"I don't even know how to get hours."
"Non-profit organizations. All you need to do is go down to guidance and ask what there is to help with."
"Can't I get the hours from helping with the play? That's most of my time."
"It's an extracurricular. I'll tell you what— you find something— tutoring, helping a teacher clean their classroom every day, even carrying a kid's books— do fifteen hours worth of it, and I'll count that as community service."
"If you can do that, can't you count the—"
"Come back to me by the end of the week with what you've figured out. Good luck with auditions this afternoon."
Erik stifles a scoff, mumbling some form of thanks and leaving the office as quickly as possible. They could've just forced him to do hours every other year if it meant he had to do a shit ton now. Okay, it's not actually that many, that's just one year's worth. However, he has to do them anyway, after it was specifically requested that he be exempt. Stupid.
The bell rings just as he's passed the second floor on the stairwell. He groans, knowing that by the time he gets back to the classroom, the next class will be in there, and everyone will be staring at him as he tries to get his backpack and hoodie. It's his only class without Nadir. The only one. If he was in that class, he would've gotten his stuff for him and carried it to the next one and Erik wouldn't feel totally nauseous right now. He still would've felt nauseous over the community service thing, but now he's even more nauseous.
He reaches the fourth floor, heading towards the classroom he was in when there's a tap on his shoulder. He spins around a little too quickly, probably revealing how evidently flustered he is. The girl with the dark curls that sits in front of him is standing there, in her hands his black hoodie and backpack. Erik takes note that she's holding them as if they aren't infected by some sort of ugly contagion.
"Hi, sorry. I figured I'd grab these for you. I would hate to have to go back in there when another class is there -I worded that weirdly- but, uh, yeah, anyway, here you go." She holds out the items, her arms, skeletal and lanky, peak out beneath her itchy maroon sweater.
"Oh, um, thanks." He says, taking his belongings and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "I definitely would've hated going back in there." And she smiles. A real, actual, nice person type of smile. Not the fake kind. Or the uncomfortable, what-the-hell-happened-to-your-face kind. And Erik finds himself blurting out, "Are you auditioning for the musical?"
Her cheeks redden immediately. Well, not redden. They turn a rosy pink, practically making her freckles disappear. "Yeah, I am. How'd you know?"
Cover blown. She'll know he was watching her a little too closely. He didn't mean it. She's right there in front of him, how could he not notice? "Oh, I saw you doodling mermaids in the margin of your notebook."
Her face actually goes red this time. She clearly has social anxiety. Who wouldn't if they moved to an entirely new state for their last year of high school? That's such a terrifying cliché. And a small school at that. "Yeah, Little Mermaid is my favorite princess and Sierra Boggess is like- literally the love of my life- not that I'm gay or anything I just mean that I admire her a lot and she's literally the most gorgeous, talented person on the planet and-" The girl sufficiently made a complete fool of herself. Erik chuckles a legitimate chuckle. No one actually makes him laugh except Nadir or himself. But he can't help but think that this girl is literally the most adorable thing in the universe. But maybe he's just inspired by her Sierra Boggess Hyperbole.
"The bell is going to ring in a few seconds. You can continue your profession of love for Sierra at auditions later, if you'd like. I'll see you there." And the nausea is gone. Just like that. And from speaking to a girl nonetheless. And walking to his next class, Erik has the faintest of faint smiles on his lips.
—
Christine Daaé had been feeling down in the freaking dumps. She had all the reason to be so, but she'd never show it in front of anyone. Her father passed away in June, so she was shipped to Connecticut to live with her aunt and join an entirely new school for her senior year. Christine didn't know that even happened in real life. Or at least, that she'd be the cliché herself.
Thankfully, she knew a couple people already. As a kid, when her father was on tour, Christine stayed with her aunt, who lived next to the Giry's. Ann and her daughter, Meg (who was the same age as Christine), spent a lot of time over Aunt Addy Daaé's, so Christine quickly became friends with the girl. She got close with her over the summer, too. As close as she could get. Christine wasn't the type to have really close friends. She didn't talk much. She was pretty shy from the time her mother passed away.
Christine was adjusting to her fairly new life. Attending a small catholic school wasn't that big a deal. It's typical, really. The only thing the school really values is the sports, and they suck at everything except basketball. But when Christine found out that there were auditions for the musical soon— and that the theatre program was actually halfway decent (not phenomenal, but decent)— she knew she had to audition. She hadn't sung in front of anyone for quite a few months. In fact, the last person she sang in front of was her father. It's a sad, 'sappy' thing that'll just be pathos for whatever argument this author is apparently selling, but it's something that decidedly happened. Anyway. Her auditioning became definite when she found out that they were doing The Little Mermaid.
If only she could go back home home and show the world her concerning collection of Ariel-related paraphernalia. And she practically worshiped Sierra Boggess. Oh god- we'll get to that embarrassment in the following moments.
Christine had noticed the kid who sits behind her in most of her classes. Everyone noticed him. Although, it was obvious he didn't want to be noticed. The first time she'd seem him was the first day of school. She had been struggling to open her locker and his was next to hers. He was not helping the poor girl at all. She was one hundred and ten percent sure that he was lingering a few moments just to bask in the amusement he found in her struggle.
Eventually, she gave up and just carried all her books to her classes for the first day, but when she went back at the end of the day to try opening it again, it had already been opened. The bottom half was closed and the top half was slightly sticking out and all you had to do was shake it to open it. It had to be the kid. It couldn't've possibly been anyone else.
Of course, the first thing she actually noticed about him was his face. Well, you could also count his sheer human presence, but you know. His face was messed up. Not that badly, though. But enough to get a lot of shit for it. Seeing it just broke Christine's far too empathetic heart. Not because it was ugly, just because it was one more difference for a kid to get bullied over. It was only slightly unnerving. It was easy to get past though. Christine couldn't describe what it appeared as if she tried. It was only the right side of his face. The rest was pretty normal actually. Aside from the fact that he was way more pale than the average Irishman (but then again Christine had been looking pretty sickly lately, too). But the right side of his face kinda looked like someone pinched his cheek and twisted it around as if it were clay, and then splashed some faint red paint with a little yellow here and there. Definitely weird at first, but definitely easy to get used to.
However, Christine was an abnormally open-minded person. She was 'inclined to reserve all judgement,' but not because her father told her to when she was young, and she didn't plan to become the most judgmental person in all of New York. Okay, enough Gatsby for today— moving on! Christine was too easy to let people off the hook. She recognized the bad in the world, but also knew her place. She knew what she was capable of doing and changing, and she knew that at seventeen years old, making a difference in the world started small. Perhaps it was because she was used to being the person who was judged, but Christine could never bring herself to look upon a person in disgust or even annoyance.
Okay, that's not completely true. There's this girl in her Calc class. Very much of an Italian heritage. And it's not like Christine immediately decided she was annoying. She waited for her to prove it— and prove she diddly darn did. It wasn't even the second day of school and she was already making unnecessary complaints regarding actually having to do work. How she managed to get into the honors class, no one will ever know (everyone actually knows), but Christine wishes every day that she tested into AP. She was fairly certain the boy with the face was in AP. He had to be. It didn't take long for her to realize that he was definitely a super genius.
And back to her being way too empathetic. She felt like someone had ripped her lungs out when the bell had rung first period and he hadn't returned. She stared at his hoodie and backpack for fifteen agonizing seconds before grabbing them. How she would proceed to get them to him, she wasn't so sure. But as fate would have it, he was walking with his back to her. She knew his name. Of course she did. He sat behind her in four out of her seven classes (six of which they had together). But she definitely didn't want to yell out to him in the crowded hallway. So she ran up to him and poked her finger to his bony shoulder with a little too much momentum. Her strangely flexible finger bent the way it's not supposed to but did all the time, and she pulled her hand back to her side as soon as he twirled around to face her with very distinct, golden eyes.
And the Sierra Boggess thing? Could you be anymore embarrassing than accidentally sounding way homophobic after accidentally saying that you were in love with a woman. Christine should've stopped herself at 'life.' She'd appear far less homophobic and far more fangirl-y if she stopped there. She'd much rather be possibly-gay fangirl than homophobe. But he cut her off before she could even fully explain herself. And she was a little shocked when he said he'd see her at auditions. If she never spoke to him, she'd assume he was just crew or something. But hearing his voice was literally the equivalent of melting chocolate chips over the oven to dip your pretzels in. Fuh-reaking heavenly.
But she wasn't going to worry about seeing anyone at the auditions. Only she, herself, and her. Or else she'd probably projectile vomit absolutely everywhere. Because this role means a little too much for her not to audition for. She needed it. And maybe it'd actually be strong enough to suck her out of rock bottom, which she most definitely hit. Quite hard, at that.